The Year's Best Horror Stories 4

by Gerald W. Page (Ed. )

  Angry as he was, Marc had control enough not to ask whether she had seen what he had done there; he kept to the problem of his wife's disappearance.

  "Then she has simply gone out into the caves."

  "I'm afraid so, sir. I should have watched her."

  "Now you're sounding like Judith herself. If anyone should have watched her, it should have been me. It is not important to fix blame; what we must do is find her."

  "And if she does not wish to be found?"

  "She must be found anyway! Even if what happened to Kyros drove her to madness she must be found—she mourned each of the others, just as I did, but she recovered each time."

  "But how will you find her? Even you do not know all these caves and passages. If she simply started walking with no plan, the gods alone know where she might be now. And if you did find her, how would you get her to come back if—"

  "I have persuaded her before. She will come back when I find her. Wait here, and keep food ready; I will come back to rest—I don't say every day, because I won't know when the days are over, but when I have to." Elitha looked at him thoughtfully.

  "But I should help, Master. She should be found quickly, since she is without food; two of us can search more places before it is too late." He pondered that point, and finally nodded.

  "Very well. You search the caverns closest to here. Mark your way, and start back while there is still enough oil in your lamp—"

  "I understand, Master. I will not lose myself."

  But the search could not be continuous. Food and sleep were necessities; oil had to be replenished—sometimes from the distant village. Elitha did this errand once so that Marc could keep on looking, but she was not able to carry nearly as much as he; more time was lost than gained. Marc made the trip thereafter.

  At the end of the first week, Marc was pointing out that there was water in the caves, so Judith could still be living. At the end of the second, his tune was, "At least she won't be moving around now. We're more likely to find her." Elitha made no reply to either theory, even when the third week had passed and no sane person could have expected to find the woman alive. Marc, at this point, was not sane. The girl knew it, and spoke and acted accordingly.

  On the twenty-third day he came back from one of his searches to find her waiting. This was not too unusual, but the bowl of food she handed him did catch his attention.

  "Why did you take time to cook?" he asked. "Have you stopped searching?"

  "Yes, sir. Since yesterday. Finish your food and I will explain." Somehow she dominated him as he had dominated Judith in similar circumstances, and he emptied the bowl, never taking his eyes from her face. When he had finished and set the bowl down, she took up one of the lamps.

  "Come, my lord." He followed dumbly. She led the way along the tunnel to the garden for a short distance, and then turned off into a narrow passage to the right. Marc could see that the route was marked with soot, as they wound their way into a region which even he scarcely knew, close as it was to the home cave. He commented after a few minutes.

  "Did she leave this trail?"

  "No, sir. I marked it during my search yesterday. I had not come this way before."

  "Then you found her?"

  "You will see. Follow." He obeyed, and for half an hour the pair made their way through the unnoticed beauties of the cavern.

  At the length the way opened into a space some fifty feet across. The girl stopped at its center.

  "Look," she said, pointing to the floor.

  Marc saw a clay lamp at her feet. It was dry, and the wick had clearly been left to burn down as the oil disappeared. He looked down at it briefly, then turned to the girl.

  "You found this here?"

  "Yes. It had been left where you found it now."

  "You mean she left it here when it went dry and just wandered off in the dark?"

  "No. I think it was burning when it was put down. Look again, Master." She gestured toward the far side of the chamber, and led the way toward it.

  A pit, a dozen feet long and half as wide, lay before them. Elitha walked around one end of it to the wall on the farther side, where a cluster of finger-thin stalactites grew. She broke one of these off, and tossed it into the hole.

  There was silence for several heartbeats, then a clatter as it struck. This was repeated several times, and terminated in a sound which might have been a splash, though it was too faint for Marc to be certain.

  Elitha pointed to another broken stalactite, a few inches from the one she had used.

  "She could have used this to find whether—whether this was deep enough," she said gently. She regretted for a moment being on the far side of the hole, but reflected that Marc liked to be sure before he acted. She was right.

  He stood looking down into the blackness for what seemed a long time, while the girl stayed where she was, almost without breathing. Then he turned and walked back to the place where the lamp had been set. Elitha took the opportunity to round the pit again, and followed him. She waited behind him while he stood looking at the empty lamp once more, wondering whether the heartbeats she could hear were her own or his. Then he turned and began to walk slowly but purposefully back toward the pit.

  She was in front of him instantly, barring his way. He stopped, and a faint smile crossed his face.

  "Don't fear. You can find your way back," he said softly.

  "I know I can. That's not it, Master. You must come, too."

  "Why? The only thing I had left in life is down there." He nodded toward the pit.

  "No. There is something else."

  He raised his eyebrows, Judith's suggestion of a few weeks before crossing his mind. He chose his words carefully.

  "Can you say just what is left for me? My family is gone. My fight is lost."

  "No!" she almost shouted. "You're wrong! Your fight isn't lost—it's scarcely begun! Can't you see? I can't read or write—I haven't her wisdom—but I can hear. I heard much of what you said to her, and I learned much from what I heard. I know what you are fighting, and I know that you have already learned more about that fight than any man alive. It is still your fight, even though your own children are lost.

  "My lord, I am a woman. I may never have children of my own, but I can speak for those who have or will. I know what your fight has cost—I know what you had to do in that other pit, where you had the child you stole from the village. I know why you couldn't tell our lady what you had done or why it had failed, until the little one was hurt—"

  "I couldn't even tell her then," Marc cut in. "What I told her was not true. I did get my blood into that child, and my blood killed him. How could I tell her that?"

  Elitha's eyes opened wide. "You mean one person's blood kills another? That Kyros was killed by his own mother's blood?"

  "No. He might have been—I can't tell. But he wasn't. I don't know whether his mother's blood would have helped or harmed him. He died before she had opened her own vein. She used the knife to go into his arm, then put the quill into the blood vessel she had opened; but she never put any of her own blood into the funnel. She must have seen he was gone before she could start. I don't know what killed him; he may have been about to go anyway, or perhaps putting the empty funnel into his vein harmed him in some way I can't imagine now. How can I learn the truth when so many things may be true? Maybe she was right—maybe the gods did curse us."

  "Or her."

  "No! No god that would curse a woman like Judith is worth a man's worship."

  "But a demon which would do so is worthy to be fought."

  "That may be." He pondered silently for a while. "But I don't see how I can carry on the fight. Judith is gone, but even without her to help plan or—or hinder testing, I can't work alone—I don't know—I can't think straight anymore—maybe she was right about not trying things on other people—"

  "She was wrong," cut in Elitha. "She could not help feeling so, because she had children of her own. If I had children, I might be the s
ame; but as it is, I can think of other women's children, both now and in years to come. I loved your wife. I was her slave all my life that I can remember. I loved her children, though they were not mine; and because I loved children not my own, I can think of still others. I am not as wise as she was—"

  "I wonder," he muttered inaudibly.

  "—but I am sure she was wrong and you were right about this. She could not think of your using other children, because she could think only of how she would feel if they were hers. You yourself could not use your own child. Now you would listen to her dead voice, and stop the struggle. Listen to mine, Master, and fight on—for the children and mothers of the years to come!"

  "You tell me to do what I have done—steal and kill children?"

  "I say what you once said to her. If you do not, this sickness will kill more."

  "And you could bring yourself to help?"

  "Gladly. I saw your four sons die. I would do anything to stop that curse."

  "But I can't keep stealing children from this one village. Sooner or later our work would become known. Could you face what would happen then?"

  "If necessary, I could. But you need not stay here. Go back to the mountains where you were born—there must be many places where you could live and work. If we are feared and hated, it will be worth it—though I think we can remain unknown if we move often enough.

  "You know I am right, Master. Leave her to sleep alone here, and come back to the fight."

  The man nodded slowly, and spoke even more slowly.

  "Yes, you are right. And she was wrong. She thought the curse was her fault, and that Kyros's injury and death were her fault, and could not forget it. I feel that her death was my fault—I didn't tell her enough of the truth; but whether my fault or not, there is still the fight." He looked down at the girl suddenly. "I even feel guilty for letting you join the work"—her eyes fell, and a faint smile crossed her face—"but I accept the blame. Come."

  He stared to pick up the empty lamp, but she forestalled him. She took it, strode to the pit, and tossed it in. Heartbeats later its crash came back to them. After a moment he nodded, took the burning lamp, and led the way from the cave. Elitha, following in his shadow, allowed a momentary expression of relief to cross her features as she wiped oil from her fingers.

  THE HOUSE ON STILLCROFT STREET by Joseph Payne Brennan

  Joseph Payne Brennan has been a too carefully guarded secret of horror-story connoisseurs for more than two decades, during which time he has published dozens of excellent stories and a handful of short-story collections without quite achieving the reputation his talent deserves. Perhaps this is because his skill is so natural you enjoy it without noticing. So we urge you to pay attention and remember his name; and you'll definitely want to remember it after reading the following story with its rather nasty little suggestion that while it may be all right to talk to plants, you should never take your eyes off them.

  Amley is one of those out-of-the-way villages which the average traveler never hears about. Years ago a main road passed perilously close to it, but this route has since been superseded by a high-speed, four-lane parkway. The old route is often nearly deserted and almost nobody turns off at the tilted sign bearing the weathered letters, Amley.

  I was introduced to Amley years ago by my friend Hugh Corvington, a wealthy member of my club who had stormed Wall Street successfully and retired early. Although I was a largely unrecognized writer who would have had difficulty in scraping up a penny for every hundred dollars possessed by Corvington, for some reason he like me and sought out my company.

  Occasionally we had long leisurely dinners together; now and then we spent an evening over the chessboard and a bottle of good port.

  One June, when I was fretting about where to go for a vacation, Corvington mentioned Amley.

  He was casual, even diffident, about it. "Not much of a place. Dull, you know. And not right if you want travel. Only forty-odd miles from here, but quiet and peaceful. Pleasant place, really. No trouble getting lodgings. In fact, you could bunk in with me while you looked around. I've got a small house up there. A bit cramped, I'm afraid, but there's the usual guest room. We could manage while you poked about and made up your mind."

  Two weeks later I drove up the old route, turned at the tilted sign reading Amley, and after a few miles found myself in a charming, somnolent New England village which had somehow escaped the annual invasion of the acquisitive "summer people."

  Corvington's "cramped" small house turned out to be a compact Georgian gem, complete with Doric entrance columns.

  Less than an hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes, I was sitting with my affable host on a screened rear porch which overlooked an English-type walled garden.

  As I settled back in my chair and sipped my whiskey and soda, I lost all desire to travel, to seek out lodgings—and to carry through the writing chores which I had assigned myself.

  Corvington seemed to sense my mood. "Thought occurs to me, y'know. If you can put up with this place, no real reason to muck about after rooms somewhere else. Stay here. I have a woman come in to fix breakfast and lunch. Dinner usually at the Black Lion Inn, Amley's only hostelry. Quite good, really."

  I thanked him sincerely but insisted that I wouldn't dream of imposing on him to such an extent.

  He would have none of it. "No imposition at all. Quite the opposite. You'd be doing me a favor. Now that I have nothing pressing me, I get bored on occasion. We might have some splendid games of chess without having to watch the clock!"

  He refreshed my drink. "Of course you'd be free to write whenever you wanted to. No intrusions there. I respect your craft."

  So it was settled. I understood that he would be offended if I even suggested remuneration of my accommodations. I decided that I would try to pay for most of our dinners at the Black Lion Inn and let it go at that.

  The summer settled in smoothly. I usually wrote for a few hours in the morning and after lunch strolled around the village. Often I walked right through into the surrounding countryside. I would return in time for a shower, cocktails, and a relaxed chat before I walked with my host to the Black Lion Inn.

  Not infrequently I spent most of the afternoon sauntering about Amley's leafy street. The peace and quiet of the place, the relatively unpolluted air, and the sense of stability surrounding the quaint old houses acted as a tonic and—I might as well admit it—a soporific.

  My writing proceeded more or less on schedule; some color came back to my pale face and I beat Corvington at chess more often than formerly. Fortunately, he was a good loser. My improving gave acted as a challenge and I think we both played better than we ever had before. I can recall many long-drawn, remorseless battles.

  One sun-drenched afternoon while I was strolling Amley's shaded walks, I noticed a sign reading: Stillcroft Street. The name intrigued me. Quite naturally I decided to turn at the sign. The street was little different from others in Amley: quiet old houses, gardens, immense trees—and scarcely a soul in sight. As I neared the end of it, I saw that it was a dead-end thoroughfare and that I would have to go back the way I had come.

  Sauntering to the extreme far end, I crossed the road, intending to return on the other side. It was then that I first noticed the opposite house, the last one on the street. The house itself was ordinary enough—a two-story brick square with very few embellishments—but it was surrounded by a thick growth of exotic-looking trees, shrubs, and plants which appeared to have run wild over the premises. There was no evidence of any recent pruning, trimming, or shaping.

  I was particularly struck by a glossy, luxurious growth of heavy climbing ivy which virtually covered the entire front of the house, including the windows. Only the door itself seemed to have escaped the clutch of this remarkable plant.

  I supposed the ivy was the common climbing variety but I had never seen ivy leaves so large. Their rich deep green color, shining in bars of sunlight which slanted through the trees, app
eared to possess a purplish sheen.

  As I remained staring at the unusual growth, I caught a glimpse of a white-haired man's face peering out of one of the upper windows. The window itself was almost entirely screened by ivy leaves, and as I looked up, the face abruptly disappeared.

  Turning away, I continued back up Stillcroft Street toward the center of Amley.

  Over cocktails that afternoon I mentioned the house to Corvington.

  He nodded. "That's Millward Frander's house. Noted botanist, y'know. Used to travel all over the world and bring back rare plants. Had a showplace garden. But he's been ill for some years. Recluse now. Scarcely anybody sees him. Stays shut in there and the garden's run riot. Too bad."

  He sipped his martini and for some minutes was silent. Finally he added, as an afterthought of little importance, "Second cousin of mine, actually. I've a key to the house even. Never dream of using it, of course. I like privacy and I respect it."

  "You're right," I agreed, "but don't you think he's got carried away a bit? The place is going to disappear in that jungle!"

  Corvington shrugged. "I've a sort of philosophy. Every man has a right to his own kind of madness—providing, of course, it doesn't impinge on the rights of others. If Millward wants to live in a miniature jungle—well, so be it!"

  I dropped the subject and did not bring it up again, but every day or two I found myself sauntering down Stillcroft Street. I presumed poor old Millward Frander was cursing me out as an infernal spy and busybody, but that strange ivy-shrouded house drew me like a magnet.

  During the hot, brilliant summer the ivy seemed to grow almost visibly. Ivy, of course, is not a sun-lover, but the house itself was well-shaded by a row of huge old elms which grew along the front walk. The ivy received very little direct sunlight.

  Almost as I watched, it seemed, the broad five-lobed leaves, glimmering purple-green, extended their domain. Only once or twice more after my first glimpse of that white-haired old man's face at the window, did I see it again. The ivy leaves sent their fluttering legions over the glass and the window just disappeared completely.